Bosch looked at him for a long moment.
“You’re wrong about me. I have faith and I have a mission. Call it blue religion, call it whatever you like. It’s the belief that this won’t just go by. That those bones came out of the ground for a reason. That they came out of the ground for me to find, and for me to do something about. And that’s what holds me together and keeps me going. And it won’t show up on any X-ray either. Okay?”
He stared at Golliher, waiting for a reply. But the anthropologist said nothing.
“I gotta go, Doctor,” Bosch finally said. “Thanks for your help. You’ve made things very clear for me.”
He left him there, surrounded by the dark bones the city had been built on.
26
EDGAR was not at his spot at the homicide table when Bosch got back to the squad room.
“Harry?”
Bosch looked up and saw Lt. Billets standing in the doorway to her office. Through the glass window Bosch could see Edgar in there sitting in front of her desk. Bosch put his briefcase down and headed over.
“What’s up?” he said as he entered the office.
“No, that’s my question,” Billets said as she closed the door. “Do we have an ID?”
She went around behind her desk and sat down as Bosch took the seat next to Edgar.
“Yes, we have an ID. Arthur Delacroix, disappeared May fourth, nineteen eighty.”
“The ME is sure of this?”
“Their bone guy says there is no doubt.”
“How close are we on time of death?”
“Pretty close. The bone guy said before we knew anything that the fatal impact to the skull came about three months after the kid had the earlier skull fracture and surgery. We got the records on that surgery today. February eleven, nineteen eighty at Queen of Angels. You add three months and we’re almost right on the button—Arthur Delacroix disappeared May fourth, according to his sister. The point is, Arthur Delacroix was dead four years before Nicholas Trent moved into that neighborhood. I think that puts him in the clear.”
Billets reluctantly nodded.
“I’ve had Irving’s office and Media Relations on my ass all day about this,” she said. “They’re not going to like it when I call them back with this.”
“That’s too bad,” Bosch said. “That’s the way the case shakes out.”
“Okay, so Trent wasn’t in the neighborhood in nineteen eighty. Do we have anything yet on where he was?”
Bosch blew out his breath and shook his head.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you? We need to concentrate on the kid.”
“I’m not letting go because they’re not. Irving called me himself this morning. He was very clear without having to say the words. If it turns out an innocent man killed himself because a cop leaked information to the media that held him up to public ridicule, then it’s one more black eye for the department. Haven’t we had enough humiliation in the last ten years?”
Bosch smiled without a hint of humor.
“You sound just like him, Lieutenant. That’s really good.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He could see that it hurt her.
“Yeah, well, maybe I sound like him because I agree with him, for once. This department has had nothing but scandal after scandal. Like most of the decent cops around here, I for one am sick of it.”
“Good. So am I. But the solution is not to bend things to fit our needs. This is a homicide case.”
“I know that, Harry. I’m not saying bend anything. I’m saying we have to be sure.”
“We’re sure. I’m sure.”
They were silent for a long moment, everyone’s eyes avoiding the others’.
“What about Kiz?” Edgar finally asked.
Bosch sneered.
“Irving won’t do a thing to Kiz,” he said. “He knows it will make him look even worse if he touches her. Besides, she’s probably the best cop they got down there on the third floor.”
“You’re always so sure, Harry,” Billets said. “It must be nice.”
“Well, I’m sure about this.”
He stood up.
“And I’d like to get back to it. We’ve got stuff happening.”
“I know all about it. Jerry was just telling me. But sit down and let’s get back to this for one minute, okay?”
Bosch sat back down.
“I can’t just talk to Irving the way I let you talk to me,” Billets said. “This is what I am going to do. I am going to update him on the ID and everything else. I am going to say you are pursuing the case as is. I will then invite him to assign IAD to the background investigation of Trent. In other words, if he remains unconvinced by the circumstances of the ID, then he can have IAD or whoever he can find run the background on Trent to see where he was in nineteen eighty.”
Bosch just looked at her, giving no indication of approval or disapproval of her plan.
“Can we go now?”
“Yes, you can go.”
When they got back to the homicide table and sat down Edgar asked Bosch why he hadn’t mentioned the theory that maybe Trent moved into the neighborhood because he knew the bones were up on the hillside.
“Because your ‘sick fuck’ theory is too farfetched to go beyond this table for the time being. If that gets to Irving, next thing you know it’s in a press release and is the official line. Now, did you get anything on the box or not?”
“Yeah, I got stuff.”
“What?”
“First of all, I confirmed Samuel Delacroix’s address at the Manchester Trailer Park. So he’s there when we want to go see him. In the last ten years he’s had two DUIs. He drives on a restricted license at the moment. I also ran his Social and came up with a hit—he works for the city.”
Bosch’s face showed his surprise.
“Doing what?”
“He works part-time at a driving range at the municipal golf course right next to the trailer park. I made a call to Parks and Recs—discreetly. Delacroix drives the cart that collects all the balls. You know, out on the range. The guy everybody tries to hit when he’s out there. I guess he comes over from the trailer park and does it a couple times a day.”
“Okay.”
“Next, Christine Dorsett Delacroix, the name of the mother on Sheila’s birth certificate. I ran her Social and got her now listed as a Christine Dorsett Waters. Address is in Palm Springs. Must’ve gone there to re-invent herself. New name, new life, whatever.”
Bosch nodded.
“You pull the divorce?”
“Got it. She filed on Samuel Delacroix in ’seventy-three. The boy would’ve been about five at the time. Cited mental and physical abuse. Details of what that abuse consisted of were not included. It never went to trial, so the details never came out.”
“He didn’t contest it?”
“It looks like a deal was made. He got custody of the two kids and didn’t contest. Nice and clean. The file’s about twelve pages thick. I’ve seen some that are twelve inches. My own, for example.”
“If Arthur was five . . . some of those injuries predate that, according to the anthropologist.”
Edgar shook his head.
“The extract says the marriage had ended three years prior and they were living separately. So it looks like she split when the boy was about two—like Sheila said. Harry, you usually don’t refer to the vic by name.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Just pointing it out.”
“Thank you. Anything else in the file?”
“That’s about it. I got copies if you want it.”
“Okay, what about the skateboard friend?”
“Got him, too. Still alive, still local. But there’s a problem. I ran all the usual data banks and came up with three John Stokes in L.A. that fall into the right age range. Two are in the Valley, both clean. The third’s a player. Multiple arrests for petty theft, auto theft, burglary and possession going back to a full juvy jacket. Five years ago he
finally ran out of second chances and got sent to Corcoran to iron out a nickel. Did two and a half to parole.”
“You talk to his agent? Is Stokes still on the line?”
“Talked to his agent, yes. No, Stokes isn’t on the hook. He cleared parole two months ago. The agent doesn’t know where he is.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, but I got him to pull a look at the client bio. It has Stokes growing up mostly in Mid-Wilshire. In and out of foster homes. In and out of trouble. He’s gotta be our guy.”
“The agent think he’s still in L.A.?”
“Yeah, he thinks so. We just gotta find him. I already had patrol go by his last known—he moved out of there as soon as he cleared parole.”
“So he’s in the wind. Beautiful.”
Edgar nodded.
“We have to put him on the box,” Bosch said. “Start with—”
“Did it,” Edgar said. “I also typed up a roll-call notice and gave it to Mankiewicz a while ago. He promised to get it read at all calls. I’m having a batch of visor photos made, too.”
“Good.”
Bosch was impressed. Getting photos of Stokes to clip to the sun visors of every patrol car was the sort of extra step Edgar usually didn’t bother to make.
“We’ll get him, Harry. I’m not sure what good he’ll do us, but we’ll get him.”
“He could be a key witness. If Arthur—I mean, the vic—ever told him his father was beating him, then we’ve got something.”
Bosch looked at his watch. It was almost two. He wanted to keep things moving, keep the investigation focused and urgent. For him the most difficult time was waiting. Whether it was for lab results or other cops to make moves, it was always when he became most agitated.
“What do you have going tonight?” he asked Edgar.
“Tonight? Nothing much.”
“You got your kid tonight?”
“No, Thursdays. Why?”
“I’m thinking about going out to the Springs.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, talk to the ex-wife.”
He saw Edgar check his watch. He knew that even if they left that moment, they still wouldn’t get back until late.
“It’s all right. I can go by myself. Just give me the address.”
“Nah, I’m going with you.”
“You sure? You don’t have to. I just don’t like waitin’ around for something to happen, you know?”
“Yeah, Harry, I know.”
Edgar stood up and took his jacket off the back of his chair.
“Then I’ll go tell Bullets,” Bosch said.
27
THEY were more than halfway across the desert to Palm Springs before either one of them spoke.
“Harry,” Edgar said, “you’re not talking.”
“I know,” Bosch said.
The one thing they had always had as partners was the ability to share long silences. Whenever Edgar felt the need to break the silence, Bosch knew there was something on his mind he wanted to talk about.
“What is it, J. Edgar?”
“Nothing.”
“The case?”
“No, man, nothing. I’m cool.”
“All right, then.”
They were passing a windmill farm. The air was dead. None of the blades were turning.
“Did your parents stay together?” Bosch asked.
“Yeah, all the way,” Edgar said, then he laughed. “I think they wished sometimes they didn’t but, yeah, they stuck it out. That’s how it goes, I guess. The strong survive.”
Bosch nodded. They were both divorced but rarely talked about their failed marriages.
“Harry, I heard about you and the boot. It’s getting around.”
Bosch nodded. This is what Edgar had wanted to bring up. Rookies in the department were often called “boots.” The origin of the term was obscure. One school of thought was that it referred to boot camp, another that it was a sarcastic reference to rookies being the new boots of the fascist empire.
“All I’m saying, man, is be careful with that. You got rank on her, okay?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll figure something out.”
“From what I hear and have seen, she’s worth the risk. But you still gotta be careful.”
Bosch didn’t say anything. After a few minutes they passed a road sign that said Palm Springs was coming up in nine miles. It was nearing dusk. Bosch was hoping to knock on the door where Christine Waters lived before it got dark.
“Harry, you going to take the lead on this, when we get there?”
“Yeah, I’ll take it. You can be the indignant one.”
“That will be easy.”
Once they crossed the city boundary into Palm Springs they picked up a map at a gas station and made their way through the town until they found Frank Sinatra Boulevard
and took it up toward the mountains. Bosch pulled the car up to the gate house of a place called Mountaingate Estates. Their map showed the street Christine Waters lived on was within Mountaingate.
A uniformed rent-a-cop stepped out of the gate house, eying the slickback they were in and smiling.
“You guys are a little ways off the beat,” he said.
Bosch nodded and tried to give a pleasant smile. But it only made him look like he had something sour in his mouth.
“Something like that,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“We’re going to talk to Christine Waters, three-twelve Deep Waters Drive
.”
“Mrs. Waters know you’re coming?”
“Not unless she’s a psychic or you tell her.”
“That’s my job. Hold on a second.”
He returned to the gate house and Bosch saw him pick up a phone.
“Looks like Christine Delacroix seriously traded up,” Edgar said.
He was looking through the windshield at some of the homes that were visible from their position. They were all huge with manicured lawns big enough to play touch football on.
The guard came out, put both hands on the window sill of the car and leaned down to look in at Bosch.
“She wants to know what it’s about.”
“Tell her we’ll discuss it with her at her house. Privately. Tell her we have a court order.”
The guard shrugged his shoulders in a have-it-your-way gesture and went back inside. Bosch watched him speaking on the phone for a few more moments. After he hung up, the gate started to open slowly. The guard stood in the open doorway and waved them in. But not without the last word.
“You know that tough-guy stuff probably works real well for you in L.A. Out here in the desert it’s just—”
Bosch didn’t hear the rest. He drove through the gate while putting the window up.
They found Deep Waters Drive
at the far extreme of the development. The homes here looked to be a couple million dollars more opulent than those built near the entrance to Mountaingate.
“Who would name a street in the desert Deep Waters Drive
?” Edgar mused.
“Maybe somebody named Waters.”
It dawned on Edgar then.
“Damn. You think? Then she really has traded up.”
The address Edgar came up with for Christine Waters corresponded with a mansion of contemporary Spanish design that sat at the end of a cul-de-sac at the terminus of Mountaingate Estates. It was most definitely the development’s premier lot. The house was positioned on a promontory that afforded it a view of all the other homes in the development as well as a sweeping view of the golf course that surrounded it.
The property had its own gated drive but the gate was open. Bosch wondered if it always stood open or had been opened for them.
“This is going to be interesting,” Edgar said as they pulled into a parking circle made of interlocking paving stones.
“Just remember,” Bosch said, “people can change their addresses but they can’t change who they are.”
City of Bones Page 18
